We Are Who You Thought We Were

By Mike Greger

We are the worst fans in America.

I’m done pretending. The blinders are off. Let’s beat this dead horse into the ground.

To borrow a line from a former Vikings coach: We are who you thought we were.

This is Philadelphia, after all. From birth, we are taught to challenge the status quo, to wag our middle fingers in the face of conventionalism. My Italian grandmother instructed me to wear red on St. Patrick’s Day. My dad laughed at “America’s Team” and fitted us for matching “Dallas Sucks” T-shirts.

We’re loud. We’re obnoxious. We don’t care what you think.

We are who you thought we were.

Yes, we booed Michael Irvin as his motionless body lay on the hard concrete known as The Vet.

Of course we spit and threw batteries at Doug Pederson when he played for the Packers.

We are the green-painted hooligans that chucked full pounder cans at the Vikings team bus.

Damn right, we threw snow balls at Santa Claus. Why? Because he didn’t bring us what we really wanted for Christmas, the only thing we have ever asked for: a friggin’ Super Bowl championship.

We are who you thought we were.

Forget that the Patriots had more fan arrests over a five-year span, according to a Washington Post survey. Never mind that Bruins fans once booed Jesus Christ on Easter Sunday. Or that a Red Sox fan used a racial slur and threw a bag of peanuts at a black player. And put aside the fact these Celtics fans thought it was a good idea to punch each other in the face.

But I’m not here for a back and forth on unruly fan behavior. Every city has out-of-control fans, even Minnesota – just like every family has that one racist Trump supporter that can’t shut up. Heck, we have a statue to the original Trump, Frank Rizzo, outside City Hall.

We are who you thought we were.

What I’m saying is, let’s own our reputation. Use it to our advantage.

Guess what? It is cold and miserable here in the winter, and we will flip you the bird while cutting you off in traffic. And don’t sit there with your avocado toast acting like you’ve never done it. You did it this morning – and you’ll probably do it again on your drive home from work. Maybe you’ll even stop for a cheesesteak. Go full Philly cliché and blare Meek Mill through the stereo speakers.

We are who you thought we were.

You know who isn’t who we thought they were?

Boston.

In fact, F%#@ Boston.

I can say that because I lived there for four years while attending Boston University. It was a great town at the time, a city that was dealing with its own sports curse. The Red Sox hadn’t won since 1918. The Big Dig was the biggest joke in the history of modern infrastructure. And the Patriots’ only claim to fame was a 3-0 game, best remembered for an illegal snowplow. Cheating appears to be the Patriot Way.

Things were so bad in Beantown that their owner threatened to move the team to either Connecticut or Rhode Island. Back then, the Pats were an afterthought to NO-mah and the Sox. They played second fiddle to The Truth and the C’s. They were a sad postscript to Jumbo Joe and the B’s.

As a junior in college, I turned down FREE tickets to Foxboro because a Pats fan told me it wasn’t worth the hour trek out there. Boston fans were so apathetic they stole a cheer from a divisional rival and screamed “P-A-T-S Pats, Pats, Pats” at anyone who would listen to their annoying accents.

Then Mo Lewis decapitated Drew Bledsoe, forever altering the space-time continuum. I had a front-row seat, on a beer-stained futon in my fraternity house. Several months later, I was in the same spot when NFL Rule 3, Section 22, Article 2, Note 2 ended Jon Gruden’s first tenure in Oakland.

I trudged home to Philly not knowing that the seeds for the NFL’s most dominant dynasty had been sown in the frozen tundra at Foxboro. While the Eagles went on to lose NFC championship after NFC championship, the Pats were obnoxiously spraying red, white and blue bukkake all over everyone’s faces. Finally, Boston had become a football town.

Back in Philadelphia, we prayed for our miracle. For our Tuck Rule. For our SpyGate. When that didn’t work, we resorted to heckling and booing. And then we heckled and booed some more.

We are who you thought we were.

Recently, a Boston TV station ran an ignorant and cringe-worthy segment comparing Eagles fans to animals. Obviously, his editors needed a ratings boost.

“You know, I would call them animals, but I’m an animal lover,” the reporter said, “and that’s an insult to animals, to be honest with you.”

On Feb. 4, these animals will be the loudest dogs in the pound. From Minneapolis to Manayunk, you’ll hear us barking “E-A-G-L-E-S Eagles” in perfect harmony in a beautiful green symphony.

F%#@ you, Boston.

We are who you thought YOU were. Super Bowl champions (soon enough).